


draw me like one of your motherfucking french bitches, brother

by oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society (Homestuck), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Background Relationships, Blood and Violence, Bulges and Nooks, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Chucklevoodoos, Consensual Sex, Hook-Up, Human/Troll Relationship (Homestuck), M/M, References to body horror, Scratching, Sexual Experimentation, Violent Sex, Xenophilia, art class is in session, costarring the futon of auspisticism, live drawing, slurry, subjuggulator nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 08:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: Dirk wants to experiment with drawing troll anatomy.Gamzee doesn't see an issue with giving a shadey motherfucker a real good live model.





	draw me like one of your motherfucking french bitches, brother

"Well, shit, motherfucker," you drawl and take in the utter stillness of a motherfucker's face as you gesture downwards to your loose pants, slung down low on the angles of your hips in a way that was more lazy than provocative. You've spent enough time around Eq-bro to get hold of some tells a motherfucker uses even when their peepers are all up and hid. His gaze had definitely gone right the fuck down to where you were gesturing. Hey, ain't like you didn't invite the looking. "If you wanted some fucking live action to give you the _real feel_ of a situation, all you had to do was up and ask."

"...and what makes you think I'd be interested in something like that?" he says, cautious and cagey as a purrbeast fearing a sudden portal to close on its waving tail in answer to your statement. Motherfucking feelings, how do they work? You grin slow and lazy, and pretend that you're very interested in the tea you'd been drinking. Been all kinds of interesting, working with these suavely ironic motherfuckers who your pale-bro seems to have fallen in with. It's true flush with the younger one, you ain't the sort to pretend other motherfucking wise, even if you get whiffs of obsidian pitch every time you smell his mammalian stink all up and over your cuddlebro. 

Motherfucking heretics, just where do they think they got the right?

Any fucking way. You been told sure and certain, he ain't your problem. Yet all the motherfucking same, you keep winding up here somehow while your miraculously pale invertebrother be elsewhere, sharing space with the lusus-haired motherfucker who's the elder of these _Strider bitches_. He's not so bad, he could be worse. Could be the other Strider (Messiahs got someone for _everyone_ , sure enough but did it have to be _Dave Strider_ for _Karkat Vantas_ , who be your fucking serendipitous moirail?).

The fact that Dave ain't here is pretty much why Karkat ain't there either. Headed out real quick, that's what they'd said. Be right back. Right back, your god damn sweet ass. Anyway, back to the conversation to motherfucking grasping frond. Ain't to the point in this interaction where you can get distracted, as easy as it is for you. Got all those fucking holes in your pan. He's waiting on your good word, so you plunge back into communicating with this lean motherfucker.

"Heard you bemoaning your lack of motherfucking _practical exposure_ , shadey bro." You shrug, your muscles moving along your bones like the displaced motherfuckers that they are. Nothing clings to you too much, not even your own husk and all parts thereof. Only Karbro seems to be aching to be constant in your life, as thrown to the tilt-a-whirl of the damned as you are. Humans think you're exaggerating. You ain't. You know what you are, given and true and tempered over motherfucking _fire_ and quenched in boiling Caliborn's rage. 

Oop. Now there's a name you shouldn't be speaking, or even maybe thinking. Not outside of sanctified spaces, of which this is one of the least motherfucking sanctified areas you could even think of.

"A righteous fuckin' ninja could help you with that."

"Well...that's certainly an offer," he says, like he don't want it. You grin slow and lazy at him, knowing exact how the gradual unveiling of your mess of fangs can affect someone as soft and sheltered as a human sort of motherfucker. His face is stern and unyielding, pointed shades like daggered shields, but you know how a human's cardiopusher beats, you know the rhythm, you can hear it in trapped in its cage of flesh and bone. His doesn't quite skip a beat, but it definitely hesitates a moment. Your grin doesn't waver and you get to your feet, clap your hand on his shoulder like you didn't feel him flinch away from your intention, even as your palm was meeting the surface of his corpsehusk with a hard slap.

"Its just an offer, bro. Lemme know if you wanna take me up on it, and I'll show you all the bulge you could fucking desire to lay your peepers on." Karkat's gonna motherfucking murder you, but the whole joke of it is worth it. Whether he takes you up on it, or no. You're kinda hoping he does, for the mirth of it if nothing else. Ain't like you're expecting something else to come from it; pretty sure his aesthetic adoration is cemented in other, more warmblooded directions and not your skinny clown-painted ass.

It's some kinda shocking when you're chilling post-pile a few weeks later and you answer your palmhusk to see a creamsicle flavoured motherfucker getting his DM on with you. Apparently, he really motherfucking _do_ want some hands-on, eyes-on experience with some troll type junk. 

Well, motherfucker, well, well. You guess you ain't wanna stand in front of some exploration. Gotta promote interspecies understanding, that's what Karbro and his motherfucking sign-spawnpoint wanna be telling at you. Gotta get along, gotta play nice with these hornless brothers and sisters and neebees, as a motherfucker wants to identify, ain't no skin off your sniffnode. Neither is stripping down to your naked hide to let some shady brother get some look-see on your corpus. Besides...you kinda interested to see how a stoic motherfucker takes on all what you got when he gets his gaze on of it. If he's gonna go peeping at some motherfucker's bulge and nook and all - you think he oughtta see something that's worth it. 

Which brings you the fuck to now, where you're reclining so motherfucking gracefully it'd bring a tear to your ocular if you cared about it, naked as the day you were hatched, but with less slime. For now until you get all your bits out to play, at the motherfucking least. You're naked but decent at the motherfucking moment, but that's sure to change. That being the reason you're here and all.

Pants kicked off to a corner of the room and your shirt pulled up and over your horns before being dropped on top of the clothing puddle, shoes poking out from underneath before you'd taken your recline up on this stank-ass futon that was apparently what passed for a leisureblock in this neck of the woods. You think you can feel a spring digging into the corner of your spine and you grimace, then shift. Strider older (but not eldest, so you been told) is sitting crouched like a motherfucking drainspout creature on a chair, drawstick to the ready and pad propped up on his skinny knees.

Brother's almost to a match of you in terms of how the bone-nubs shown up through y'all motherfucking skin and all, and you're the one who actually has a moirail while he's the one that's bonier. Guess human littermates just ain't quite on the game.

"Lemme know when you want more, bro," you drawl, and settle in to something like a nap while you let him draw you. Wonder what it's all gonna look like in the end. You wanna see what you look like through another's oculars. Still, you've always been able to nap just about anywheres, and you blink your eyes open lazily as a motherfucker clears his throat. Cough hhhn, pay some motherfucking _attention_. Well, he got your wakefulness and you raise an eyebrow at him. "Sup, brother?"

"I'd like..." He clears his throat again, and if you didn't know better you'd say a stoic motherfucker was gaining to put on a blush or some shit. Your eyebrow arches higher, questioning, while the stunted fins on the tips of your ears try to flick forward. Every inch of you aimed to show quivering eagerness to up and get your listen on. "Yeah, I'm ready for you to jack off, or whatever."

"Jack off?" you needle, because there's just something about smoked dark lenses that drives the ornery in your soul. Practically motherfucking fated. Just makes the strings of your spitegland swell up with glad fulfilment and you grin, while he scoffs. All wide grimace and maybe just a hint of lolling tongue. It suits you for these hornless motherfuckers to think of you as something drugged and dopey, even if you ain't anywhere as close to stoned as you like to act. Makes em think you're harmless. You're willing to let it be so.

"Masturbate," he stresses, and you keep your stupid look on, just looking at him with those glazed eyes that you can put on so well. You're real good at the stupid look. It's second nature, or maybe even first. Besides, everybody knows you're one dumb as fuck motherfucker, that's just the way things be. "Fuck. You know what I mean." He looks frustrated; it's a good look. "Self pail, or whatever a troll calls it. Give yourself an orgasm. You know what I want to see."

You're laughing at him, and his face goes stiller as he takes you in. Letting your legs fall apart, your touchingstubs take their wander on down your husk. From collarbone to sternum, down to the softness of your belly they do go. Touch yourself in tender places and let your hips lift up a little, and let yourself give out a sigh.

"Yeah, I get you, brother. You wanna see my bulge 'n all."

That gets him to massage the bridge of his nose briefly, knuckles bumping at his shades. Your laugh before had been mostly silent, but now you can't hold back the chuckle rising up from the depths of your chest. Whoops. Just that he looked so fucking discomfited, yet utterly expressionless at the same time. Struck you as funny, was all. 

"It's what we're here for," he deadpans, and you nod a little because yeah, that was sure as fuck true. Your hand is busy between your thighs, and you let out a soft sigh. Feeling things starting to soften up, work their way up and out. Takes a little while to wake a motherfucking bulge up, or it did for you at least. Ain't so eager as to jump on every opportunity that offered.

"Why don't you say something sexy or something, motherfucker? You could even get a little closer," you suggest, because even for you, it's a little weird that he's just sitting there. Getting his gaze on, but removed from the situation. Maybe you should have brought some porn. You rub your thumb over the edges of your sheath and hiss something soft out between your fangs. "C'mon. Even a little mood music?"

"And what _is_ mood music for clowns?" he wonders out loud, and you can see him tighten his grip a little further on his drawstick. So angular and pointed, so tightened in on himself. Motherfucker really should let loose, once in a while. You're kind of tempted to slip a motherfucker a slice of pie. That's kind of fucking hellmirthful to consider, but since you can already hear Karkat screeching in your aural clots like a phantom menace of foreboding moirallegiance, you know you ain't gonna do it. Not slip him one anyway; although you're always open to offering some of that miraculous green shit up for a curious adventurer. Who knows what effect sopor has on humans? Someone's probably studied it but not you and that's because you full and final do not give one single shit about how hornless cope with things that belong to the likes of you. 

"Some ill beats, motherfucker. I know that you got that kind of shit, produce it on the down low." Your bulge stickily starts to extrudes from your sheath, and you gasp softly as it curls around your thumb. Dirk shifts in his chair, changing position and bringing one thigh up against his crotch. Oh really? Now that's motherfucking _intriguing_. "C'mon. A brother could use a little help here getting his lewd act on."

"This wasn't part of the deal," he mutters, but the chair scrapes as he gets up and drags it a little closer. You feel your eyes half-closing, offering him what could be a dopey kinda motherfucking smile but really it's just god damn full of _teeth_. He stays upright on his walking fronds as you rub your nook, making work to do your own shifting and spread your skinny thighs to get a better access at this place of your motherfucking pleasure. He's gripping that pad and drawstick so tight, looking down at you, nostrils thinned and mouth a dead line. You don't think he's real motherfucking impressed with your behaviours and manner of speaking - good. Impressing him ain't what you're here for.

"See something you like?" comes off taunting from your wicked tongue, and you survey him from behind the fringes of your lashes. This wasn't what you'd come for. But it is so much nicer to pail with two as opposed to one, that you ain't seeing fit to deny yourself what you're pretty sure you're halfway to reaching out and motherfucking _taking_. You already got an idea as to what he's got stuffed in those stupid skinny jeans, even if you ain't seen it for real yet. Stupid motherfucking sexually differentiated motherfuckers, but you're mostly sure that you know what _type_ of Messiahs-forsaken bits you're gonna be looking at; ain't so much as you mind either way but you're curious to see what's got Karkat shifting sideways in his seat sometimes in the after-evening. If you can convince him to get his pants down, that is. Just got to get a shadey brother to that crisis point - something you know you're pretty damn good at. "You wanna come and get it then, bro, before I take it off the deal plateau."

You sit up, knees spread far fucking apart and reach down to spread the lips of your glistening nook wide open, giving him a real motherfucking good glance at your nobly purple-tinted insides. Slick and wet, bulge orientating itself in absent twists and squirms against the hollow of your hip, your thighs. The corner of your mouth tugs up, as he freezes, his fingers spasm. The drawstick drops to the ground, with a light rolling clatter as it bounces. Once, twice, before rolling away into silence.

" _Fuck -_ " he stresses through barely parted lips, and you just watch him. Let him look his fill; he's a real motherfucker for the watching. What is _all and up_ with these shades wearing motherfuckers, that they just want to stand and watch? Get a real motherfucking stare on, a look to dissect what's happening around them instead of feeling it, _experiencing_ it. Like maybe they won't get besmirched if they just keep that one step back from life. Wasteful motherfucking indolent fools. 

Still sometimes they do come in useful and they're kinda pretty to look at, most of the time. This one don't even sweat. Visibly, at least but you're fucking working at changing that.

He's stone and solid, standing like you've struck him stupid and dumb with the sight of your exposed nook. A laugh escapes you, a sniggering _honk_ of a chuckle, feeling your expression light up with mirth. This _whackjob motherfucker _just looking at you like a gobsmack looney - hmmmhph!__

You've got a mouth punching onto your mouth, pressing you back into the broken wasteland of this sketch ass curbgarbage couch. His hands grab at your shoulders painful, blunt stupid teeth grating against your mess of crooked fangs as his tongue just pushes straight in there, like you maybe won't bite it off for his sheer motherfucking effrontery. If this hadn't been what you'd been aiming for about the time you decided you were motherfucking bored of this posing and staying still shit, you mighta. Your hands are trapped down in front of you as he pushes you backwards, and you gasp a little, giving up on display and going for satisfaction. Knuckles of your fingers rubbing up down your slit, up to your sheath and back down again.

"Guess you do want it, huh?" you needle because you can, and his expression goes all tight and angry before you twist your hand to cup that intriguing mound in the front of his jeans and squeeze. Not as hard as you'd like, don't want to derail this shit by damaging something important, but firm enough to show you mean business. That makes his expression change alright. You grin up at him, and he swoops back in again to kiss you, denim-covered knee thrusting between your thighs and shoving up against the delicate skin of your nook. You moan, low and dirty, while he's still holding himself back like it means something, with your hand full of something hot and your nook soaking his walking-stub cover with purple.

"You're fucking insufferable, you know that," he says in a monotone, and you snort before reaching for the waistband of his pants and fumbling with the button. He's seen all your bits on display, bulge all fully out and waving hello now, you wanna see what he's got. He helps a little but pulling his shirt up over his head, exposing pale shivering skin with pinky little nipples, and only the curve of thoracic struts on his sides, decently covered with epidermis, muscle just showing, and no grubscars to be seen.

Got some fucking weird little divot in his belly though.

You give up on wrestling the tight jeans off his ass so you can poke it, claw digging into the little hollow of his flesh that he's got. Dirk jerks away from you with a hiss, dropping his shirt on the ground and you raise an eyebrow at him. Oh, now he looks pissed. You slide your hands up his thighs where he's looming over you like maybe he got you trapped (a riotous fucking hilarity if he thinks so) and let yourself leer up at his barely emoting angry face. Just a little tension. A little downturn at the corner of a motherfucker's facegash. That's what gives you the sitch status.

"Something up, my fine ass motherfucker?"

"It's a bellybutton, all humans have them, don't dig your fucking claw into it again," he says, like the way he's ordering you is gonna mean jack and fucking shit to whatever so pleases a righteous brother to do. But you'll let it go for now. Means he won't be expecting it later. The thought makes you snicker, and he rolls his eyes like whatever noise you make is beneath his notice. Then he pulls his jeans all the way off, kicking them to the side off his stubs and you get a whole motherfucking ocularful of just what he's got between his legs.

"The fuck is this shit?" you demand, and start reaching out to flick the what the actual fuck fleshtube he's got with your finger. He pushes your hand away, and this time you can see the mask cracking further. That does do you a world of good but still - is this the bullshit that Karkat is putting up with? Guess you got your answer though, as to what kind of weaponry he's packing. Your thinkpan is seething over what that hot rod is gonna feel like in your nook, but you ain't done giving him shit yet. When you ever will be is a question for the Messiahs. "What motherfucking excuse for a bulge is this?"

"This is a dick," he says, and you can _feel_ the irritation in him surging. You make another grab at it, and he snatches your wrist out of the air and _slams_ your grasp-frond back into the couch. Something grinds in his grip, those finer bones of your frond, and you can't. Stop. Smiling. Hell yeah, _hell motherfucking yeah_. Much as he likes to seem all poise and stillness, there's some rage in there buried in the depths of him that you can draw out to the surface. Like a poison. An infection. Something to get his blood absomotherfuckinglutely _boiling_. "How much more show and tell do you need, Makara?"

"I'unno, Strider. How much hands-on demonstration is there involved in your showing and telling?" you ask with a leer, and he lets you put your other hand on his hip. You stroke, skin soft and warm and oh so motherfucking vulnerable beneath the chipped tips of your claws, and you look up at him. Like you're the supplicant here; motherfucker, you ain't got no time for these god damn games. The universe is set in a cycle of perpetual motherfucking death and demise, ain't that so? You know because the Scriptures tell you so, whoop whoop. So best to get what can be gotten while life is there for the motherfucking taking. Some motherfuckers just ain't with the program, and you're feeling awful empty nook-wise. "Or you just gonna _tell_ , ain't so much on the _show?_ "

You purse your lips and make a scolding sound, before you're back to the aggressive interspecies make out. He lets up on the grip he's got on your wrist, and you get a double handful of that skinny ass and dig your claws in as he digs his teeth into your lip. Like it even gonna matter to you, with what your hide is made of. You guess for a human, it's a pretty strong bite. Even enough to get you bleeding so as you can taste the bitterness of it across your flavourslab. You make an approving grunt and haul that motherfucker right in and on top of you, wrapping your walkstruts around him, digging your heels in and arching up to try and direct this stiff stick to where you think it'll do the most good. Right in your god damn nook - _finally_.

"Oh I'll show you alright," he says, making an effort at getting a snarl into his voice. It's low and mad, gritty like a slab left out to bake in the sun. You laugh in his face, and really dig your motherfucking heels in at the small of his back, feeling something smoothly rounded and unholy hot prodding at the slickness of your nook. He lets out a hiss as he sinks inside the frigid well of your nook, and you let out a warbling mewl, feeling all your insides get stretched right the fuck away, no lead in, no gentling.

Just straight up thrust open, and heat sinking in deep to the heart of you. 

It feels like he splits you wide with this strange bulge he got and you arch your back and howl with the feel of it, sinking your claws into his shoulders and arms, his warm flesh wherever you can grab it. He curses, and thrusts forward again. Deeper, harder. More. It's god damn motherfucking different to a real bulge, you're saying that for sure. No fucking wonder sometimes Karkat got just that hint of a limp.

You pull your hands back, and there's red on the tips. Warm and motherfucking _wet_. Your nook is expecting a slow surge and writhe, it gets a motherfucking rapid back and forth as Strider fucking _pounds_ you right into the barely covered springs of his hive's comfortforsaken futon. Your bits ain't incompatible, but god fuck, they sure weren't meant for each other. At least troll nook for hornless dick, the heavy shaft of it sure seems to be making itself at proper hearth and hive right all the way to the end of your inner places. It's driving you _crazy_ , and your claws shred his shoulders as only by motherfucking force of god damn will do you keep your fangs out of his throat.

The smooth arch of it is right above your face. Beckoning, begging for your teeth in it, while he fucks you like a machine into jittering pleasured pieces. Takes you apart, the smooth untrollian rutting thrust of his hips doing something to your hindbrain that makes it go absolutely feral. You're hearing things, and you throw them back out from your thinkpan with an effort before you push yourself up from the couch as the walls start to slipslide with droplets and gushes of phantasmic blood. Push him up, your hands clawed shapes grabbing at his body until you both fall from the couch with a thump.

 _He's_ the one on his god damn back now and you squat over him, panting and feeling the sweat pool against the grease-shine of your paint. Hair in your face, and your frondtips painted red, so motherfucking red. The air giggles and howls, and you can feel your lips stretching wider. The urge to laugh is almost irresistible; you hold it back. 

"Sup, motherfucker."

He answers you with a grimace and thrusts up with his hips hard enough to knock the wind out of you. With his hands gripping at your ass and hips, it's easy to get into the rhythm as like he'd had before. Knees set on the ground, leaning back with your fronds digging tunnels into his thighs. You're a hell of a motherfucking contorturerist when you want to be. 

"Fuck," he grits out between his teeth, and you hiss, clacking chitter rising up in the back of your throat all threatening and heavy. "Shit, _fuck_ -" God damn motherfucking eloquent and all, ain't he? You aim to drive all the words from his head, while your 'voodoos spill out like motherfucking shaken up Faygo. You're all kinds of stirred and shook, thick heavy impalement heated to the very end of your nook. Blunt tip prodding at your seedflap and making all the muscles in your lower bits convulse and tauten, feeling something like righteous fervour shake you all the way to the skeletal struts holding up your fleshly husk.

The only thing that's a comfort is how Dirk looks all motherfucking _undone_ under you. Shades on a slant, giving you a glimpse of fevered tawny eye. Like a marble rolling around in the socket of the ocular of his skull. Makes you want to dig it out and eat it, but you're gonna be a well mannered motherfucker - ain't like y'all two of you in true spades or something anyway. Maybe if it'd been some kinda motherfucking serendipitous loathing, you'd have gotten your eat on for some part of him so he could never really leave you - always be part of you - but this ain't that.

It's just a real good pail.

You're gonna ride this motherfucker until he comes all the way apart at the seams, like a busted up one of those impudent-nosed things he keeps around despite Dave's best protestations otherwise. You got a feel on a certain affinity for a motherfucker on that; Karkat had an ongoing hankering to clear and raze within the boundaries of your belongings. Who the fuck was Marie Kondo, and did you care? You thought the answer was the fuck not, and as far as you're concerned all of your shit is stuff that sparks _joy_. Or a range of other worthwhile emotions.

Like this motherfucker you got right here, all way too willing to fire up a ninja's lusts and maybe to fuel his rage. You're wrecked and trying not to show it, wanting to make a motherfucker cum. You wanna feel him spill lavahot into your insides, fulfilling all the promise of this thrust in and pull out that is making your insides shudder. A bulge would have the decency to get in there and _motherfucking stay there_. 

Speaking of bulges, while you're all up to acting like his dick is a pogo stick and fucking yourself on it, he grunts and sits up enough to get his hand around yours. He handles it rough, pulling from base to tip in a way that pulls a resonating snarl from your chirpbox and a renewal of just how much blood is flowing down the walls. It's a multicoloured goreshow, while he wraps those fingers around you and strips you like a god damn musclebeast udder.

You flinch back up from your backwards facing bend and grab his wrist hard enough to come close to breaking something, knowing your eyes are whirling red and mouth agape, drool slipping down your chin. Not just from being pailed within an inch of your life with one of the weirder things you've ever stuck in your nook (still not the weirdest) (a story for another motherfucking night but it had involved a visit to the doctormentor) but from rising rage and a terrible hunger. Who the fuck - what -

"It ain't a dick, motherfucker, handle it more gentle," you snarl like the ripcord starter of Kansis's chainsaw, and he just smirks at you like the smug son of a bitch he is. And does it again - you howl, the air _screams_ and you come apart in his lap in a deluge of purple slurry. Drooping forward and feeling your ears try to twitch and flutter, like some kinda god damn mating display of something similar to submission, he digs his fingers into the bony planes of your ass. His heels into the floor.

And _fucks_ you.

Hips slamming against the inadequate cushioning of your thighs. Making these little grunts of effort that mean as much to you as the way some strands of hair are slicked to his forehead with sweat. You blearily keep your eyes open, watching him as your oversensitive nook sets off fireworks in your thinkpan while he just keeps thrusting into it. Punishing every inch he can reach just for existing, is what it feels like.

Until finally he comes with a little soft groan that sounds almost anguished, and inexplicably unthefuckfilling jets of heat spurt into your core, making you twitch and moan like some kinda fucking soft motherfucker. Fuck. It doesn't feel like enough, but you ain't about to suggest a second round to this shades wearing piledriver. Loath as you are to motherfucking admit it, even in the space of your own skull, your nook needs to fucking recover first.

The two of you are a motherfucking wreck on the god damn floor as your bulge starts to sluggishly retract, making you sigh out a low sound at the feel of it. A soft suctioning that you're pretty well familiar with. The walls stop bleeding and the air goes silent, like there never was no motherfucking apparitions of your harshwhimsies gone riot. You back in control now, but _ow motherfucker_. You're feeling god damn bruised in motherfucking sensitive places. He's bleeding shallowly from the scratches you've inflicted on his shoulder, his back and his hips, so you feel like you left your own motherfucking mark well enough. At least yours are probably gonna be all motherfucking interior.

You got a whole new respect for the strength of Karkat's nookwalls though. Maybe he gets through easier because the motherfucking temperature difference ain't quite as fucking acute? A question to ponder. It's all a motherfucking miracle. Even if you ain't sure how much you like it, despite the quivering aftereffect to your innards and your walkstruts. God damn. You ain't walking any fucking where for a while yet.

Pulling off, you slump to the side and slowly collapse before climbing back onto the fucking futon. It ain't covered in slurry (too much), and is a modicum softer than the floor for your bruised motherfucking nook. Dirk crawls on up after you and hits some button down low that make the whole thing almost jettison the two of you to the floor right speedily, before unfolding somewhat. You unfix your claws from the upholstery with as much dignity as you can manage and squirm your way into lying beside a long-limbed brother. 

Fuck, he's so warm.

So tense.

You kinda want to clamp a motherfucking icepack right up between your thighs though, even if you ain't gonna admit to such weakness in front of this smug piece of effrontery. You snort a little through your nose and he fixes his shades back into place on his face, like you haven't seen his gaze bare just now. Whatever a brother needs in the moment. Fuck. You grin at him lazy, trying not to seem like parts of you are still shivery and overwhelmed. He coughs, and you move your head enough so you's can fix your oculars on him, one eyebrow raised in wordless query. Just what could a hornless motherfucker want now?

He doesn't say anything about you lying there, so you stretch your arms up above your head. Let your body shiver through all its aches before reaching for the rumpled sheets and making a move to pull them up over yourself. You're always motherfucking tired after a pail, especially when it was a hellacious rumpusride like what you just been through.

"You're just going to go to sleep now, after that?"

"Hell yeah, motherfucker." He sounded god damn gobsmacked, in that very undertone way so you yawn real wide to make your motherfucking point. What, he gonna try and kick you out? You'd like to see a motherfucker try, even with the sheer multitude of janked up swords he apparently has the motherfucking ease of use for. You'd feel sore over his misuse of a hellarai's weaponry but Karkat has explained to you slow and careful how the humans had had something similar and it didn't mean the same fucking sacred thing to them as it did to you. Often. At length. About a whole lot of shit actually, where the fuck did humans get off stealing all this motherfucking stuff from you? Anyway, ain't like you're in the mood to make a big deal outta something like that. "Get a snooze on, then motherfucking head on over to places you don't need to be aware of. You dig?"

"I suppose kicking you out into the street clutching your clothes and smeared with sex juices would be a breach of hook up etiquette." There's a rustling noise as he gets up outta lying next to you, and then it feels like only moments later, when something damp smacks you in the face. You squawk, and open your eyes, sitting up to see him looking down at you with a raised eyebrow. Jeans back on his ass and hiding what you know now to be a visually pleasing sight from view. What a motherfucking pity. "Clean up a little at least. I don't need clown fluids on my sheets."

"Long as you don't think a ninja gonna be getting down on hands and knees to scrub that motherfucking floor."

"I didn't think you would. I'd say don't worry about it, but I already know you won't."

You chuckle as you flip the sheets back, before using the damp ablutionscrap to wiped down over your stomach and thighs. There's still something of him in you, but you don't think it's anything to worry about. Your belly ain't even swollen up none, you'd never know he'd used you as a pail unless you came right out and said. Throwing the dirty cloth back to a motherfucker, you make an expansive gesture before going to pull up the sheets again. Fuck, this comfortslab wasn't any better to lie on to get a snooze up than for sitting on. Ain't like this hornless fucker's gonna have a recuperacoon though, so you guess you'll make do. 

"Happy now? Can a brother get some shuteye on?"

"Fuckin' ecstatic. I've always wanted to have a hobo clown cluttering up my futon." 

"Uh huh. I motherfucking _knew it_ , bro." This time when he joins you, he actually settles in and seems like he's got something of a relax on. You breath out a quiet laugh softly to yourself and let yourself ease down into the righteous slumber that's been beckoning you. Damn. Who knew art class could be so fun?

carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling terminallyCapricious [TC]

CG: PLEASE TELL ME THAT DAVE IS FUCKING JOKING, GAMZEE.  
CG: GAMZEE FUCKING MAKARA, YOU BETTER FUCKING BE THERE WHEN I TROLL YOU OR I SWEAR TO FUCK, I WILL MAKE YOU PAY FOR IT AT SOME TO BE DETERMINED TIME IN THE FUTURE.  
CG: THE PAYMENT WILL BE LONG WROUGHT AND ARDUOUSLY SOUGHT BEFORE I REACH MY CLIMAX OF VENGEANCE, AND BELIEVE ME, YOU WILL FUCKING REGRET IT BY THE TIME I HAVE MY POUND OF FLESH.  
TC: SuP mY mOsT mIrAcUlOuS cAnDy ReD oF bRoS?  
CG: DON'T YOU START WITH ME RIGHT NOW, YOU BLITHERING INCOMPETENT CLOWN FUCK.  
CG: SO 'APPARENTLY' YOUR LIVE DRAWING CLASS WITH DIRK WENT WELL.  
TC: HaHa, YeAh, MoThErFuCkEr.  
TC: ;o)  
TC: WeNt AlL kInDs Of MoThErFuCkInG sWeEt.  
TC: ThInK a ShAdEy BrO gOt AlL kInDs Of GoOd DrAwInGs AnD fUcK. sAiD hE hAd A lOt To WoRk WiTh WhEn I lEfT, aNyWaY.  
CG: GAMZEE.  
CG: GAMZEE.  
CG: YOU INCORRIGIBLE FUCKING *HOPBEAST*.  
CG: STOP. FUCKING. PEOPLE. IN. OUR. HATEFRIEND CIRCLE.  
TC: WhEn WiLl PeOpLe In OuR hAtEfRiEnD cIrClE sToP bEiNg So MoThErFuCkInG dElEcTaBlE tHoUgH?  
CG: FUCK.  
CG: I JUST.  
CG: I'M A WRITHING CESSPOOL OF VOMITING VOLCANIC RAGE RIGHT NOW, I HOPE YOU REALISE.  
TC: ShOoSh, BrO.  
CG: DON'T YOU MOTHERFUCKING SHOOSH ME, I WILL NOT BE DETERRED FROM THE VITUPERATIVE SCOLDING YOU HAVE EARNED WITH SUCH ENTHUSIASM.   
TC: <>  
CG: OH NO. NO NO NO DON'T YOU FUCKING START WITH ME, NOOK FOR BRAINS.  
TC: LoOk At ThAt MoThErFuCkInG dIaMoNd, AlL mOtHeRfUcKiNg LoNeLy.  
TC: DoN't LeAvE a BrO hAnGiNg, BrO.  
CG: LEARN TO GET SOME FUCKING SHAME, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, GAMZEE.  
TC: :o?  
CG: FUCK.  
TC: :o)  
CG: I HATE THAT FUCKING SMILEY WITH THE GOD DAMN SNIFFNODE RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF IT, YOU KNOW THAT RIGHT.  
TC: HaHa, YeAh, MoThErFuCkEr. SuRe Do.  
TC: <>  
CG: FUCKING MANIPULATIVE DIAPERSTUB SHITTING MORON. YOU'RE LUCKY I PUT UP WITH YOU.  
CG: <>  
TC: :oD  
CG: SO.  
CG: WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO NOW? LIKE, IS THIS GOING TO BE A THING?  
CG: DAVE'S ALREADY FLIPPED RIGHT OFF THE HANDLE AND COME BACK AROUND TO DO A GOD DAMN TRIPLE SOMERSAULT RIGHT OFF IT AGAIN.  
TC: Is ThAt MoThErFuCkInG sO?  
TC: BoLd Of A sWiFt AnD sPeEdY tAlKiNg MoThErFuCkEr To AsSuMe ThIs GoT sHiT aLl To Do WiTh HiM.  
TC: DoN't YoU gEt No FrEt On, BrO.  
TC: It AiN't A tHiNg ThAt MeAn SoMeThInG, aS i'M sUrE a ShAdEy BrO wOuLd TeLl YoU sO hIs OwN sElF iF hE wAnTeD tO  
CG: BUT THIS IS DONE, RIGHT?  
TC: It'S aLl PoUrEd OuT lIkE a GoD dAmN cAn Of TaB, iNvErTeBrOtHeR. nOtHiNg LeFt Of A sCaNdAlOuS lIqUoR tO sIp, NoR dEsIrE tO.  
TC: ThInK i ChUgGeD aLl ThE gOoD mOtHeRfUcKiNg RyDe He GoT tO gIvE a MoThErFuCkEr HaHaHa.  
CG: GOD DAMN TO YOU WHATEVER BULLSHIT CLOWN HELL YOU BELIEVE IN, GAMZEE FUCKING MAKARA.  
CG: I'VE SEEN ENOUGH OF YOU AND WALKED IN ON THINGS THAT HELP ME FORMULATE A VERY CLEAR MENTAL PICTURE OF EXACTLY WHAT YOU MEAN  
CG: AND IT'S A VISION I DON'T WANT TO HAVE OF MY MOIRAIL.  
TC: My BaD, mY mOsT dElIgHtFuLlY mOtHeRfUcKiNg PaLe Of DiAmOnDs BrOtHeR.  
TC: YoU kNoW, iT's BeEn A mOtHeRfUcKiNg WhIlE.  
CG: A WHILE SINCE WHAT?  
TC: SiNcE wE aLl Up AnD gOt InTo A pRoPeR pIlE, bElOvEd.  
CG: OH. MY. GOD.  
TC: WaNnA gEt AlL kInDs Of MoThErFuCkInG tEnDeR aNd CaRiNg WiTh A hOtBlOoDeD mOtHeRfUcKeR.  
TC: EaSe HiS sOrRoWs AnD wOeS, gEt To DiScUsSiNg AlL oF hIs GoD dAmN nInEtY-nInE pRoBlEmS.  
CG: YOU FUCKING FLIRT, I'M GOING TO BLUSH IN PUBLIC, YOU ABSOLUTELY ARROGANT FESTERING ASSHOLE.  
TC: ;o)  
TC: HeLl MoThErFuCkInG yEaH, tHaT's WhAt A bRoThEr LiKeS tO hEaR.  
TC: AiN't BrUsHeD mY hAiR pRoPeR iN a WhIlE, bRo, NeEdS yOuR gOd DaMn MiRaCuLoUs ToUcH tO sMoOtH oUt AlL tHoSe FuCkInG tAnGlEs AnD kNoTs.  
TC: JuSt LiKe YoU wOrK oUt AlL tHe HiTcHeS aNd PuZzLeS oF mY pAn.  
CG: FUCK YOU.  
CG: FUCK YOU, YOU UTTERLY DECADENT SHITSTAIN ON THE Y-FRONTS OF TROLLMANITY.  
TC: YoU pItY mE.  
TC: :o)  
CG: MAY ALL THE BULLSHIT CLOWN GODS THAT ABSOLUTELY DO NOT EXIST TAKE MERCY ON ME, I DO.  
CG: I'LL BE HIVE TONIGHT, SO YOU BETTER FUCKING BE THERE.  
TC: WoUlDn'T bE aNyWhErE fUcKiNg ElSe, KaRbRo.  
TC: <>  
CG: <>

carcinoGeneticist [CG] stopped trolling terminallyCapricious [TC]

 

 

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering terminallyCapricious [TC]

TT: So.  
TT: When's the next art class, Troll Picasso?  
TC: ;o)


End file.
